To Love a Scandalous Duke (Once Upon a Scandal)

by Rosa, Liana De la

  Shifting uncomfortably, she asked, “How long will we stay in Portsmouth?”

  The leather of the seat squeaked as the larger man crossed one leg over the other. “Until we receive word.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether the vicomte receives what he’s waiting for,” Mr. Cartwell snapped.

  Trepidation shivered down her back, but she forced herself to ask, “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then we sail to St. Petersburg.”

  “What’s in St. Petersburg?” She was unnerved to hear her voice trembled.

  “You may learn soon enough,” the Russian said simply.

  Alethea wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but when the carriage came to a stop outside a modest red-brick Georgian townhome, she couldn’t hide her surprise.

  Mr. Cartwell flung open the carriage door, looking left and then right, before jerking his head. The burly Russian grasped her arm and hustled her up the steps to the front door. A proper-looking butler admitted them, and she was escorted to a quaint sitting room on the top floor. Mr. Cartwell untied her bindings and departed without uttering a word. She rubbed her wrists and flexed her arms as she wandered to the window. She extended a hand to sweep the heavy drapes aside when a voice behind her warned, “I’d ask you to stay away from the windows, my lady.”

  Whirling toward the voice, Alethea spied an elderly gentleman stooped with age observing her with crisp-blue eyes. His attire was flamboyant and colorful and spoke of wealth. The jewels inlaid in his ebony walking stick supported this notion. He approached her on slow, but sure, steps, his gaze never leaving her face. He bowed and extended a hand. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my lady. I am the Vicomte de Viguerie.”

  “You’re the vicomte?” Her mouth gaped.

  He caught her hand in his, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “I am he.” He studied her face with sharp scrutiny. “I apologize that I’ve had to involve you in my…disagreement with your father, but he’s left me little choice.”

  Alethea exhaled on a shudder. “How long will I be here?”

  The vicomte raised an insouciant shoulder. “My ship is scheduled to sail to Russia tomorrow evening. If your father doesn’t give me what I want by then, your role as my guest will be extended. For both our sakes, let’s hope he uses his time wisely.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  February 1827

  With my mortality bearing painfully down on me, I find I no longer care for the things that have held me silent. Justice can’t be realized if the guilty are not held accountable.

  -The Diary of Margaret Gordon

  The soft ticks of the clock on the desk had never sounded so loud.

  After parting ways with Finlay, Declan had returned home and drafted an epistle to Torres and had a messenger deliver it. He’d thanked every deity he could remember by name when Torres walked into the study at Darington Terrace within the hour, a satchel in hand.

  “Here is everything I have about the Vicomte de Viguerie.” The Spaniard held up a folder.

  Declan snatched it and spread the contents across the weathered surface of the mahogany desk.

  His gaze snagged on the addresses of several warehouses and buildings in various coastal cities, and he ran his finger down the list as he considered them. After quick deliberation, he settled on the direction of a warehouse in Portsmouth. Its port location made it as good a place as any to start their search and they could work their way east from there. He prayed they’d find her in time.

  “I came prepared,” Torres said. The man patted his sides, the outline of pistols showing through his coat.

  Declan nodded. “Excellent.” He extracted a key from a pocket in his coat lining, and knelt, inserting it into the lock on the bottom drawer. After pulling the drawer open, he lifted a teak box from its depths and placed it on the desk. Lifting the lid, he revealed a matching pair of flintlock pistols, resting on plush red velvet. Their rounded brass butts and fine cherrywood chambers were polished to a shine. He carefully lifted one, opening the chamber and blowing into it. As he loaded it, Torres nodded to its twin. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The Spaniard inspected it critically, but almost reverently, as if he knew the significance of the item he held. “Your father’s, I take it.”

  “Yes,” he said, running his hand over the smooth surface, a swell of memories surging from twelve years before. “He used one to kill himself.”

  Sudden weariness overcame him, and Declan pulled out the chair behind the desk and sank into it, resting his head on the seat back.

  “It suits you,” Torres murmured from the spot he’d retreated to on the other side of the room.

  “What suits me?”

  “The desk. You belong there. You are Darington after all.”

  Declan looked at the man across the expanse of mahogany; and he realized he was…comfortable. The chair fit his large form. Was welcoming and supportive. With none of the guilt he expected to have when he assumed the spot. Discovering the truth of what happened to his father and brother, and his love for Alethea, had made his return to England more fulfilling than he’d thought possible when he’d first arrived. Instead of being entangled in the past, frustrated by the actions of others that couldn’t be changed, he’d embraced the present and would fight for his and Alethea’s future. Despite the naysayers, he’d built a full and successful life for himself, and could do the same here in England, but only with her at his side. Together, they could raise their children with a love and acceptance Alethea never knew and Declan experienced for a fleeting moment in time.

  Declan tucked the pistol box under his arm. “Yes, let’s be off. The sooner we depart, the sooner we can scout the area, devise a plan, and bring my bride home.”

  They’d departed before first light and had made excellent timing. Torres had cautioned him on more than one occasion to slow down lest he tire Tamosi needlessly.

  But fear for Alethea was a powerful master to contain.

  “We’ll be at the docks within the hour,” Torres said, taking off his hat to wipe a hand across his brow. The late morning sun was beginning to turn warm, and the ride had been rough and dusty.

  “Although I know we shouldn’t, my every instinct clamors for me to ride immediately to the warehouse,” Declan shared, pulling a water jug from his saddlebag and taking a healthy slug.

  “Try to be patient. There’s a small pub near the water where we can make some quiet inquiries. If Lady Alethea has been taken there, the vicomte’s ship is probably in port or will be shortly.”

  “My company has a ship in port, I believe. The Island Jewel. Mayhap we should send a message to the captain in the event we need additional manpower.”

  “Excellent idea, Your Grace,” Torres said, flashing a piratical grin.

  The men turned their horses loose, and the smells and sounds of the port descended upon them in a blast of heat. Torres led him down narrow streets teeming with midday traffic before coming to a halt outside of a dingy tavern.

  The interior of the pub was dim, and smelled of sweat and decades of sea rot. Several patrons sat at the bar, tankards of ale in front of them, while tables here and there housed small groups of sailors, fisherman, and dockworkers.

  Torres selected a table in the far corner and a haggard barmaid brought them each an ale. Declan glanced around the room. “Is there someone in particular you’re waiting for?”

  “A young sailor named Brandon. He frequents this pub when he’s in port.”

  The men spoke little while they consumed shepherd’s pie before their target arrived. Brandon sauntered through the door with a group of fellow sailors, his worn waistcoat and shirt still leagues more refined than the other patrons’, and his blond hair brushed until it lay flat on his head.

  As the man sank into a seat across the bar, Torres rolled his eyes before he plopped his tankard down onto the tabletop with a thud. The sound, even from across the noisy taproom, brought Br
andon’s head up, and his gaze immediately darted to where Declan and Torres sat in the corner.

  The rangy blond man made his way to where they sat, gesturing to the barmaid for a pint as he went. When he came to a halt at their table, a friendly grin creased his face.

  “Señor Torres, I’m surprised to see ye here.”

  “I’m sure you are. I find I’m surprised to be here as well.” Torres reclined into the hard-back seat. He gestured to Declan with his chin. “Make your bow, Brandon, for this is your employer.”

  The sailor blinked and appraised Declan with curious eyes, but the light of disbelief never quite left them.

  “My employer is Captain Montgomery. I don’t know this man.”

  The Spaniard slowly shook his head back and forth. “It’s the duke, pendejo.”

  Brandon’s nose wrinkled. “The duke?” Torres chuckled when the man’s jaw slackened.

  “Lud, I’m ever so sorry, Yer Lordship. Yer Highness.” He turned his head to Torres with panicked eyes. “Yer…Majesty?”

  While Declan tried not to laugh into his ale, Torres took pity on him. “It’s ‘Your Grace.’”

  Brandon leaned forward as if to offer Declan a bow when Torres smacked him on the back of his head. “Don’t draw attention to him. Ay Dios mío. Sit, sit,” he grumbled, kicking a chair out for the man.

  “My apologies,” Brandon offered miserably, dropping into the chair.

  The Spaniard lost no time in disclosing why they were in Portsmouth. The man nodded his head agreeably throughout Torres’s recitation.

  “The men and I will return to the docks and see what we can learn about any ships with ties to Russia,” the young man said, smacking his thighs as he rose.

  “Alert Captain Montgomery of your search as well. He may have a better understanding of what ships carry what cargo, to where, and for whom.” Declan pinned the younger man with a firm stare.

  “Of course, Yer Grace.” He swallowed another gulp of ale, then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have news to report.”

  Declan watched the sailors depart. “Do you think they’ll discover anything?”

  “I don’t know.” Torres signaled the barmaid for more ale. “But while they see to their inquiries, let’s make some of our own.”

  “I agree,” Declan said, turning with a smile to the barmaid, who approached with their ales. “And what better place to start than with the person who speaks with everyone.”

  Evening was settling like a funeral shroud over the city, and the crowd inside the pub had grown and become as raucous as a beehive. After their questions to the barmaid had produced no useful leads, Torres had left to speak with sailors on the other side of the room. Declan had remained at the table listening to the conversation, hoping some clue would be dropped, his mien a picture of boredom.

  “Finalmente,” Torres said under his breath as he sank into the seat opposite him, his gazed fixed on a spot over Declan’s shoulder.

  Turning, he caught sight of Brandon weaving his way toward them, and he set his jaw to stay his patience.

  Torres was apparently suffering from the same impatience, for as soon as Brandon stopped before their table, he said, “What have you learned?”

  “Captain Montgomery knows of a ship, I’Margueritte, that routinely sails between France and various Russian ports.” Brandon pulled up a chair, spinning it around and propping his arms on the chair back. “We watched it for some time and saw the first mate disembark. We followed.”

  Declan leaned forward. “Where did he go?”

  A slow smile creased Brandon’s face. “I’ll show ye.”

  Brandon and a trio of sailors took Declan and Torres to an upscale neighborhood, where they pointed out a plain red-brick townhome.

  “Do you know who lives there?” Torres asked.

  “Not exactly.” Brandon exchanged a look with another sailor. “But Saul, there, spoke with the neighbor, who said she saw a black carriage arrive this morning and a pretty red-haired woman was escorted into the house.”

  “Allie,” Declan breathed, relief filling his chest. With a sense of calm resolve, he turned to the young sailor. “Tell us everything you’ve learned from observing the house.”

  Brandon, with the occasional assistance from the young man named Saul, told Declan and Torres what they had learned about the nondescript house, including the surprisingly high number of men spaced about the narrow perimeter.

  “Guards, I’m assuming,” Torres mumbled, and Declan nodded in agreement.

  “We don’t have enough men here to overwhelm them”—Declan rubbed his brow—“and I’m apprehensive about requesting more and leaving The Island Jewel unguarded. We need a distraction. Something to draw the guards away…”

  “A fire,” Torres said.

  “On the I’Margueritte,” Declan finished, smiling gamely at the Spaniard.

  The men concocted a plan for a fiery diversion, and Brandon, Saul, and their friends returned to the docks. Not a half hour later, Declan and Torres watched from the cover of nearby hedgerows as shouts of alarm rose up from the house. The door was thrown open, and a stream of men rushed out, jumping onto horses and clambering aboard a horse-drawn wagon that stopped in front of the house with a clatter.

  After the men raced away, Declan and Torres each extracted a pistol and approached the rear of the home on stealth feet, finding only a lone man standing guard over the back door. Communicating wordlessly, Declan crept behind him and knocked him over the head with the butt of his pistol. He quietly lowered the unconscious guard to the ground and they paused, tilting their heads to listen to the cool night air around them. City noises resonated in the distance, but the house was silent. With a swift glance at Torres, Declan reached a hand toward the door and slowly opened it.

  The empty kitchens lay before them. A half-eaten tray of biscuits lay forgotten on a large oak table surrounded by crumbs, half-empty teacups, and soiled napkins. No one was in sight.

  Declan moved to advance up the staircase that snaked from the room, when Torres threw an arm in front him. “Allow me to go first, Your Grace.”

  Scowling, Declan shook his head.

  “I was not really asking,” the Spaniard said, pointedly moving to stand in front of Declan.

  Rolling his eyes, Declan gestured with his arm for Torres to precede him. The Spaniard flashed him a grin and loped up the stairs…until he yelped and staggered, crashing back into Declan with a thump.

  Chapter Thirty

  November 1825

  I’m so much stronger than I look. Or…I used to be.

  -The Diary of Margaret Gordon

  Alethea despised waiting. She especially despised the notion that she waited to be rescued.

  She’d battled hopelessness after the vicomte departed, the sound of the door lock being thrown echoing through her body. She’d never been one to sit tight until someone could rescue her from a predicament. Even as a child, if she climbed too high, she found a way down. If she swam too far from shore, she turned onto her back and floated until she regained her strength to strike out for land.

  Which is why she was now crouched before the door, several bent hairpins scattered about it, testaments to her attempts to pick the lock. True, she’d never done it before, but if she was going to wait, she might as well use the time attempting something useful. She considered her next steps as she twisted another hairpin to and fro.

  Mr. Cartwell had warned her before locking her into the room that several guards were located throughout the house. Occasionally, muffled laughter filtered from the lower floors, and when she’d peered out the window, she’d been frustrated to discover two men talking on the front steps.

  Even if she was successful in picking the lock, she had no clue where to go. She didn’t know anyone in Portsmouth, and Finlay had been holding her reticule when she was taken, so she had no money.

  She had to try, though. Alethea refused to simply sit and wait, content to let ot
hers decide her future. She’d done that her whole life, and in the end, her father had shown her he cared little for her wishes and desires. His selfish actions were the reason she was in such a predicament. Gritting her teeth, she got back to work.

  Shouts and the reverberations of slamming doors unexpectedly echoed about her room. She rushed to the window to see men dashing from the house, rapidly departing in a cloud of dust. Where were they going and in such haste?

  A new thought suddenly occurred to her and she gasped. With the house free of its regiment of guards, now was her greatest chance to escape.

  She sacrificed several more hairpins in her rush, but she finally heard the telltale clicking sound of the tumbler. She jumped to her feet and stared at the door, expecting the vicomte or Cartwell to burst through at any moment. When the house remained still, she smoothed her hands down her skirts, gulped a bracing breath, and pulled down on the handle.

  No one was about. She tiptoed as quietly as possible toward the stairwell, praying no creaking floorboards lay in her path. Abruptly, noises sounded from the stairs. Grunts and thuds met her ears. Muted curses peppered the air like a collection of random music notes. Alethea jumped, panic threatening to strangle her. She scrambled to open the nearest door. It was a closet, and she eased the door shut behind her.

  Her heart beat out the seconds and the fear of discovery made her lightheaded. But a handful of minutes ticked by, and she hoped that meant the threat had passed. She had grasped the handle to open it when it was yanked from her hand.

  A figure stood in the doorway, his shape beloved and dear.

  “Dec,” she squeaked, throwing herself into his arms. Relief coursed over her frayed nerves, and seeing his handsome face was a most effective salve. He yanked her close and kissed her lips. Her cheeks. Her brow.

  A throat cleared behind them.

  She pulled away and glanced over Declan’s shoulder. A tall, black-haired gentleman with a smirk regarded her. “Perhaps you can save your reunion with your lady until we’re safely on our way back to London, Your Grace. I’d prefer not to be surprised by any more guards.”